


The Mandalorian: Crash Course

by PhoenixSolo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: All of the acronyms, Daddylorian, F/M, OFC POV, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, baby yoda is awesome, daddylorian has no idea what he’s doing, gonna be angsty at some point too, gonna be smutty at some point, tags will change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixSolo/pseuds/PhoenixSolo
Summary: I’ve wanted to get off this rock for years.Boy, do I have regrets.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Original characters, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

I’m Moira. I’m the last of my family on this dusty rock of Nevarro. 

So here I am, minding my own business being bored out of my skull when this ship just jumps out of nowhere and lands in my middle-of-nowhere village on my outer rim planet. 

The ship is battered and parts are literally falling off of it but it lands without incident just out of town. I can see it from the back of my shop/home but I can’t see anything more than the ship. 

I stretch out my senses but I can’t “feel” far enough yet. 

I’m a Force sensitive human female. I’m not a Jedi, the Jedi are extinct. Jedi is a title earned, as opposed to being entitled to. I was born with the use of the Force: I can move speeder sizes things with my mind, sense life forms and influence weak minded individuals. Nobody trained me; I learned from manuals and texts my parents secreted out of the local library before the Empire blew it to kingdom come. 

So I’m leaning over my speeder, cursing the day I bought this hunk of junk for way less than market value and not listening to my instinct about its trustworthiness. The alternator AND the starter AND the repulsor lifts are shot, the spark plugs and coils are flooded and one of the batteries has corroded to the point where the terminal end disintegrates under my touch. The seller, a Toydarian, has skipped town evidently. 

It’s just me here. My parents died a few years ago, when I was barely out of childhood and all my other relatives have left. I run the only speeder repair shop in this podunk town. Right now, I have no business: either the citizens are too poor for a speeder or I’ve already fixed it. 

As I’m leaning into the engine compartment, I realize I need a spanner from my workbench. I reach out with the Force and grab it, turning around to catch it. 

As I do, a shadow eclipses the fading light in my shop door. The twilight sun blacks out every detail—except the blaster. 

“Drop it.” 

My first instinct—being a relatively small human woman—is to Force launch the wrench in the direction of the voice and take off in the other direction. I do both; a blaster bolt to the floor in front of my feet persuades me to stop moving. 

“Stop moving, Jedi—!” 

“I’m not a Jedi—“ I say instinctively but the blaster waving in my direction convinces me to not be as sassy as I want to be; I hold up my hands in the universal ‘I give up’ gesture. “I know some stuff but I’m not a Jedi. You see a lightsaber?” 

“How do I know you aren’t playing a Force trick to make me think you don’t have one?” The figure moves into my shop and I take in the sight.

It’s a Mandalorian. Male by the timber of his voice. His beskar armor is new but used all at once and he carries a bundle in his non blaster arm. 

The lore I have written says that Mandalorians and Force users in general are enemies. I decide to tread with caution.

I shrug. “You don’t.” I take a step back as he approaches, stiffening as my back hits the derelict speeder. “I can tell you that if I had one, you wouldn’t be standing there.” I do not mean it to come out threatening and I hope he knows that.

“I’m still searching you.” 

I acquiesce with an aggrieved sigh. “ _Fine._ But if you get fresh, I will launch you across the room.” That last part is supposed to be a joke but seriously, I have no qualms about sending someone flying, even if Ma said to never use the Force in someone’s sight. 

He sets down the bundle he was holding and begins patting me down, blaster still trained on my throat. 

“Uh, hi, my name is Moira— _eek_!” I try not to squeal but fail miserably when the Mandalorian’s leather gloved hand brushes the side of my breast. I know it’s an accident but there’s no prospects out here and my mind takes a turn for the absolutely filthy. I also choose to not carry through with my threat—a blaster in your face will dissuade you from anything.

He doesn’t return the introduction.

“You gonna tell me your name or no?” 

“No.” 

“What are you doing here, Mando?” 

“What’s it to you?” Satisfied I’m not holding any kind of weapon, he backs up and holsters the blaster. 

“You nearly crashed into my town, I think I kinda deserve an answer.” I lower my arms, then fold them across my chest.

Before the Mandalorian can answer, the bundle he set on the floor MOVES and coos. Keeping his face turned towards me, he edges back to the bundle and picks it up. 

“What is that?!” The blanket falls away and—

—reveals a pair of large, luminous hazel eyes, grass green skin and long pointed ears. “A _baby_?! Where in the galaxy does a Mandalorian get a baby??”

“It’s a foundling.” He does not elaborate.

My heart seizes and I hold out my arms. “Let me see her!” _Never mind the Mando just had a blaster to my face, there's a baby in my shop!_

“It’s a boy.” After a split second of hesitation, the Mandolorian unexpectedly hands the bundle over. “If you so much as harm a hair on his head—“

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll shoot me.” I unwrap the blanket and hold the baby at arm's length. The child cants his head at me for half a second, then squeals with glee, reaching out pudgy arms towards me. I pull him in for a hug. He’s stinky—old diapers and cramped space travel. 

“Like I’d harm you, cutie pie. What’s your name, sweets?” I coo. The baby wraps his hands in my hair and pulls some into his mouth. I gently disengage his tubby hand from my hair and blow a raspberry against his cheek. He lets out the cutest giggle I’ve ever heard. 

“He doesn’t have one.” The Mandolorian sits in my only comfortable chair uneasily. “He apparently trusts you, but that doesn’t mean I do.”

“Ya hungry, kiddo? I think I have something kid friendly—“ Shifting the kid to my off arm, I walk to the wall and table that serve as my kitchen/dining room. I open the cabinets and pull out some crackers; the kid turns his head away, instead eyeing one of my fruits. 

“I think he’s carnivorous.” The Mandalorian pitches in unhelpfully. He shuts up as the fruit disappears down the kid’s throat. 

The kid also changes his mind on the crackers, consuming the entire box in a matter of minutes. I give him some flavored water as well then place the child on the floor and engage him in a game of peekaboo. He lets out a delighted laugh as I hide my face, then peek out from behind my hands, then he copies the action. “He’s adorable! Where did you get him?”

“Not your business.” 

I stand up, to the baby’s disappointment, then hold out my arms for a pick up. He lifts his own arms and I hoist him up. “Aw, did you have a long space ride, buddy?” 

“Very.” The Mando interrupts, leaning back with a weary sigh. “We need a place to lay low for a while. Any Imp activity?” 

“Firstly, I’m talking to _him_ ; secondly, not really but how long is a while?” I ask. I get the feeling through the Force that he’s actually jealous of the attention the kid is getting. 

I intend to capitalize on this. 

There’s no answer to the question on the length of time, so probably a long time. I shrug. “Stability is good for younglings, anyways.” They must be on the run from something. “We’re in the middle of nowhere but there’s a hostel up the street. You can stay there.”

“Why not here?”

“Are you serious?” I hold my arms out, indicating my shop. “I barely have enough room for me, much less a Mandalorian—that’s threatened me with a blaster, may I remind you—and a child! A speeder repair shop isn’t exactly a good place to keep one.” 

Speaking of, a yawn catches both mine and the Mando’s attention. We look over to see the kid toddling towards us, rubbing his eyes. Mando picks him up and holds him close. “It’s just for tonight, so I can feed him and clean us both up. The ship isn’t safe at the moment. We will be out of here in the morning.” 

I let out a frustrated grunt. “Hostel is closed at this hour anyways. You can have the couch, he can have the chair.” My shop is basically my home: I can’t go anywhere else. 

“Where will you sleep?” The child worms his way out of Mando’s arms and toddles off towards my only chair. 

I motion to the busted speeder. “I basically live in that thing. I’m always fixing something on it and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept in it.” 

“I think he’s claimed the chair anyways,” the Mandalorian says ruefully.

He’s right: the kid has curled up in the chair holding his blanket and looking at us expectantly. 

“Do you...do you read to him? Sing to him? Anything?” I ask while watching the kid.

“...no?” Why is that coming out a question instead of a reply?

“How do you get him to sleep?” 

“I don’t know, sometimes he just passes out and sometimes I just let him go until he falls asleep.” 

I snort. “Believe me, that is not the way to do it…” I go over to the chair where the kid holds up his arms in a pick up request. “C’mere, kiddo.” 

I scoop him up, smell and all, and bear him to the tub I use for my bathing. I turn on the water then hand the kid to the Mando. “Strip him.” 

Mando holds the kid at arm's length. I can’t see his face but his head turns away just a bit. 

“If he’s going to sleep on my chair, he’s going to be reasonably clean; strip him down and hose him off!” I demand. 

I can’t see his face but the Mando tenses up.

“You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, do you,” I deadpan.

No answer. 

“Bring him over here.” 

Twenty minutes, a toddler bath course and one clean child later, I pull the kid out of the tub. His clothes are filthy so I wrap him in one of my cleanest towels and then hold him close to my chest. I rock him and he cuddles into me, a deadweight in my arms. 

As I hum a childhood lullaby to him and gently sway, the child’s eyes get heavier and heavier; soon he’s half asleep with a little smile on his face. I feel a twinge of envy spike in the Mando again.

And...longing.

“Kids gotta feel safe in their environment; cuddling them and singing them to sleep helps.” I shift him to my shoulder so I can use my hand to adjust his blanket. No sooner than his head hits my shoulder, he starts snoring cute baby snores. 

The Mando does a comedic double take, helmet and all. “How did you do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“Get him to sleep so fast.” 

I lay the child on my chair and place a couple of pillows on the floor in case he rolls over. “Most times it’s just a full belly, dumb luck and scheduling, but wearing them out helps too.” I’ve babysat before and I’m the oldest of my parents’ children (who have all fled this dusty rock, leaving me by myself). “Do you not know anything about raising children?”

“Not this child…” _Not at all,_ I pick up in the Force.

I stretch and hop into the speeders backseat. It makes sense that the Mandalorian would want to get off that ship; it’s cluttered and cramped. Trapped in it by myself with the equivalent of a one year old? Yeah, I’d go insane pretty quick. 

The Mando stretches out on my couch, the blaster close to his hand. 

I lie down and wait for sleep to take over.  
Something about the kid set my mind at ease and I didn’t feel the need to sleep with a blaster, even with a strange man present and awake on my couch. I still toss and turn until a wave of serenity washes over me and I fall asleep comforted and happy.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, a round of what I assume is cursing in whatever language Mandalorians speak wakes me from a deep and refreshing sleep. 

This morning, I rise out of the speeder and stretch. More cursing fills the air. I step outside to see the child sitting in the sand, playing with a round, shiny thing. The Mandalorian is nowhere to be seen but I hear him. There’s clanging and banging and all sorts of noises coming from it. His ship has moved from where it was to just behind my shop. 

“You okay, Mando?” 

“Converter is fried. I can’t get this thing back off the ground!” 

“You sure it’s the converter?” I listen as Mando rattles off the symptoms. “That doesn’t sound like a converter, that sounds like repulsor lifts. Where’s the sound coming from?” 

He vaguely motions to exactly where I thought it would be: the repulsor lifts. “I tried to lift off and...get to town—“ a lie if I’ve ever heard one. “—and it got from the bluff to here and I set down hard.” 

I investigate the source of the problem: one of the repulsor lifts has scoring around the edges. Consistent with— “are you running from something?! Who the hell is shooting at you?!” 

“That’s a fairly long list,” Mando snipes back at me. 

I fold my arms over my chest. “You slept on my couch. If you’re on the run from something, it’s going to find me eventually and I have a right to know if my life is in danger.” 

And then my hair stands up on end. The sound of TIE fighters screaming through the atmosphere and above the city sets my very soul on edge. They usually fly by about this time every morning but something seems wrong about this one: there’s more ships and the flight pattern is different. Almost as if they’re looking for something.

Or someone. The Mandalorian grabs my arm and starts hustling me towards the ship. 

“You said there was no more Imp activity!” He hisses through his helmet. 

“No, I said there isn’t really much—not the same thing!” I yank my arm out of Mando's hand and stalk back to my shop. “Since Gideon showed up months ago and that big blow up and crash, there’s more Imps here—“ 

“Um, we have to go— _all of us_ —“ Mando begins pushing me towards his ship.

“Uh, NO. There is no ‘we’. YOU have to go. I’m completely innocent here.” I pull away from him. “And in case you’ve forgotten, YOUR SHIP IS BUSTED—hey!” 

I’m immobilized. It’s not the Mando—it’s the kid right in front of me. He holds his pudgy little had out in the universal language of “stop!” 

The kid is Force-sensitive. Just like me.

A series of pictures—memories, I realize—inject themselves into my head. A comforting darkness, then sounds of blasters, a visual of a mud horn bearing down on someone, an Empire uniform and the pain, terror and general discomfort that are associated with it, followed by absolute trust in the Mandalorian and—

Me. 

I start shaking. The kid wants me to help. “Look, bud, you got the wrong girl.” The child gives me a sad look. “Oh no, the innocent lothcat face is not helping—“

The Mandalorian snickers. “Resist it, then.” 

I close my eyes but I’m literally helpless to cute kids in distress, Force sensitive or not. “ _FINE_. I will fix your piece of poodoo ship—but you have to leave after that.” 

“How long do you need?” Mando starts heading towards the door of the shop. “I have to go into town and get some supplies.” 

“As much time as you can give me.” I motion to the kid. “Leave him here; he’ll be safe from whatever you’re planning and you’ll be...well, less conspicuous.” 

The Mando nods. “Thank you.” 

I wave him off. “Just get it done so you can get out of my life.” 

The Mandalorian disappears out the door towards downtown. 

While he’s gone, child and I have come into a routine: I think of a tool I need and he finds it in my toolbox. 

Right now, I need a crosshead driver. One floats up over the bulkhead and presents itself. I reach for it and it floats just barely out of the way. A giggle alerts me as to why. I smile and reach out, grabbing the driver with the Force and give it a gentle tug. “I need this, kiddo.” 

With another giggle, he releases the driver into my force grip. 

This kid is special. I’m not sure how but he is. I suppose all mothers feel that way about their children. I wouldn’t know: I don’t have kids. Maybe someday.

In any case, the kid is bright. Too bright for my own good. “Oy, don’t touch that—“ 

It’s a battery charger that I don’t want him to touch—and the little jerk touches it again! “Hey, seriously!” I see my shop exploding in my head. Pieces of me and baby and speeders everywhere. 

The kid whimpers and pulls his hand back. “Yeah, don’t touch stuff here, kiddo, it’s dangerous.” 

That familiar feeling of “something bad is about to happen” creeps up my spine. My security alarm goes off: someone just walked into the door of my shop. I push the kid into a cabinet with a bottle of juice and the driver. “Stay here, keep quiet and _donotmove!_ ”I hiss, backing up the order with a Force suggestion to stay hidden, then I glance at my security cams. There’s a tall man with caf colored skin in my lobby. He’s an Imperial officer and I feel like I should know him from somewhere. 

“Moira, I presume?” The man says with a clipped imperial accent. 

“That’s me. What can I do for you, officer?” I wipe my hands on a rag I’d stuffed in my back pocket to keep them from shaking.

“I am Moff Gideon. I am here on behalf of the Empire looking for two fugitives; they’ve been on the run for several weeks.” Moff Gideon glances around my shop, then produces a hologram from his comlink. “Their ship has been seen in the vicinity. Do you mind if I search the place?” 

The ship in question is currently _in my garage_.

“I’m afraid I’ve nothing to hide, officer,” I say jovially. Internally, I panic: how the hell am I going to explain the ship in my garage?! 

_Don’t worry_ , a calm voice soothes. _Trust in the Force._

Okay. 

I breathe and lead Gideon to the garage. 

Where the ship sits in plain sight. 

“What a lovely...shop you have,” Gideon sniffs. “Do you get much business?” 

“Not really,” I say with an overacted shrug. “Everyone is either broke or I’ve fixed it already.” 

“And what about this ship here?” Gideon questions icily. The ship sits like a glaring siren. 

“Oh,” I said airily. “I found it in the wastelands a week ago. Waited a couple of days and nobody claimed it, so I dragged it back here.” 

“Interesting,” the Moff says while rubbing his chin. “And how did you do that by yourself?” 

My heart drops to my stomach when I realize that he KNOWS. _Mando, wherever you are, stay away!_ I don’t know how the Force works but I hope he got the message. The kid, mercifully, stays hidden and silent. 

“Where are they.” It’s not a question. He knows I know. 

“I-I don’t know who you’re talking about, officer,” I stammer, trying to keep up the appearance of ignorance. 

Gideon doesn’t buy it. He presses a button on his comlink and the ship disappears. It’s replaced by the heads of the Mandolorian and the child. “I’m willing to make you a deal, young lady: give me these dangerous fugitives and I will give you everything your heart desires.” He leans in closer. “I can give you riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

My eyes widen. 

I could leave this rock. I could eat. No more worrying about how to survive: I could _live_. 

But then I remember the child. I remember the look in his eyes: guileless and trusting. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” I deadpan. 

“And if you did?” Gideon asks dangerously. 

I narrow my eyes and hope I look more threatening than I feel. “I wouldn’t tell you.” 

For a split second, Gideon and I stare at each other, daring the other to move. Gideon actually breaks first, which is surprising to me. “Well, I know who you are now. It’s just a matter of waiting for Din Djarin to return.”

I’m actually clueless now. “...who?” 

Gideon regards me with a steely gaze. “You know who he is soon enough.” 

And with a swirl of his cape, he’s gone out the front door. I sink to the floor in relief as the back door of my shop opens. 

I’m too emotionally drained to care about the Mandalorian suddenly appearing, gently pulling me to my feet and sitting me in my chair. “Are you alright?” 

I nod shakily, then shake my head seconds later, speechless. 

“We should leave,” Mando offers. 

I hesitate then nod again.

“This man is ruthless. He’s hunting a child—“ I feel his anger and urge to _protect_ rise in the Force. Not just protecting the kid; protecting me too. 

Which is weird for me. 

I stand up and wordlessly begin packing my tools. One trunk of every tool I own that is mobile and a duffel bag of clothing. That’s all I own. 

I’m leaving. For better or worse, I am leaving.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, still here. This is where it gets interesting.

“We have to go quickly—“ Mando urges as I drag the trunk of tools to the ship—the Razor Crest, I find out. “I thought saw an Imp ship out front—“ 

“You—huff—owe me—puff—an explanation!”

“Later—“ Mando grabs my tool box by the other handle and helps me drag it into the ship. “Did you REALLY have to pack so much?!” 

“You never know when you need a torquer!!” I bite out. It’s my favorite tool—and weapon, if necessary. 

Mando grunts and turns to the child. He picks up him gently despite the moment and tenderly places him into his egg-crib thing, then starts pushing buttons and pulling levers. There’s a second seat so I take it, noting there isn’t any restraint harness for it. 

“Thanks for dragging me out of there,” I say while he’s flipping switches. The engines roar to life.

He doesn’t respond to my gratitude. “I hope you fixed the lifts or this is going to be a real short trip.” 

I huff out “give me more cred—“ before he slams the Crest into a takeoff, pressing me back into the seat. I look over at the child and he looks like he is having the time of his little life.

“Well then,” Mando says approvingly. He guides it into an easy flight path to clear the atmosphere. 

“Whoa…” It’s beautiful. The inky black vastness of it all. It’s speckled with white dots—star systems—and it’s quiet. So peaceful. 

“Have you never been off planet?” 

Still staring out and trying to take it all in, I shake my head slowly. He chuckles, then unstraps himself from the chair. “This is a small craft so I have rules. One: don’t touch anything. Two: _don’t mess with anything._ Got it?”

Not taking my eyes off the space outside of the viewport, I nod. 

“I’m plotting a course to Sorgan. I know someone there.” 

“...okay.” 

It takes me some time to get over the view. The kid fidgets and I turn to look at him; he’s doing the timeless dance all little kids do when they have to go to the bathroom. Before I could move, Djarin unbuckles and takes the child to the bathroom and I’m struck by the contrast. 

Here’s this big, badass guy covered in armor and he’s got this...this baby and he’s so _tender_ with him. 

Djarin comes back and lets the kid wander around the cockpit. 

And then I realize something: I know his name. And he doesn’t know I know.

Before I could contemplate the implications of that, the child crawls up in my lap and yawns. “Hey big guy, you sleepy?” He settles into my lap and cuddles against my chest, eyes half closed. 

Soon, he’s snoring against my chest as I rock him gently. Once I know he’s asleep, I look over at Djarin, intending to ask if there is a spot the kid can nap.

He turns his head away from me. I pick up conflicting emotions radiating from him: jealousy, awe…

Interest. I blush and turn away, then stand. “I’m gonna put him to bed.” 

Djarin nods silently and I locate the sole bed in the craft. I curl up with the child in my arms and, without intending to, fall asleep on the bed.

I open my eyes sometime later to Djarin stretched out on the bed beside me. It’s a spacious bed and he can do so without touching me, but it still feels weirdly intimate. He’s snoring lightly with his helmet on. The boy is still asleep, snoring cute little baby snores—it probably hasn’t been much time since I dozed off. 

I leave Djarin on the bed with the baby and go prepare myself a cup of caf. I wrap a blanket around myself and settle with the caf in the pilot seat, sliding it all the way back to keep from accidentally touching anything. 

And I just...sit there sipping the caf, gazing out the viewport. 

“I can tell it’s your first time off planet.” 

I jump, spilling a few drops of caf on my lap. Not enough to hurt but a waste of perfectly good caf. I move to get up from his seat but Djarin shakes his head and motions for me to stay where I’m at. “Sorry—Y-yes. It’s beautiful.” 

“Too cold.” The Mandalorian shrugs. “Too big, too empty, too...too quiet.” 

“I guess I’ll get used to that after a while.” 

I stare out the viewport in silence, watching the swirl of distant galaxies and the twinkle of nearby stars. Stars whose systems hold countless planets, untold lives. 

I feel very small amongst it all, smaller than the tiniest grain of sand. 

My vision focuses away and I catch a reflection in the viewport. 

Djarin isn’t staring out of it anymore. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was looking at me, but the helmet blurs the lines of my vision. For all I know, he could be inspecting the navicomp. He catches me staring and clears his throat while looking away.

Movement around his waist catches my eye; I turn to see the child toddling out of the sleeping area, rubbing his eyes. Djarin stoops to pick him up but the kid ignores him and wobbles to me. I pull him into my lap and hold him for a few moments, his large eyes taking in the view outside of the Crest. 

“There it is,” Djarin says after a long and peaceful silence. He points out the viewport to our starboard. “Give me the kid, I’ll prep him for landing.” The boy is removed from my lap and placed in his carrier and the carrier is strapped to the extra seat. 

Sorgan sits like a swirled blue-green and white jewel in the black velvety fabric of space. It’s offset by the yellow of its sun and I’m taken by how vibrant it is, even from space. 

I don’t have long to take in the view: the missile lock alarms scream a warning. I look out the viewport as Mando pushes me out of the pilot’s seat and slams the controls in an evasive maneuver. The craft veers port and swings around and we get a good view of our pursuer. 

It’s a TIE fighter like the ones that do the flybys, except this one's wings fold in half horizontally. I look over at Mando and his helmet makes his expression unreadable. “Who is that, Mando?!” 

He doesn’t respond. “DJARIN!!” I slap my palm against the control panel—thankfully a spot with no buttons or levers. He startles a bit then brings the craft around. 

“I brought down his fighter!!”

“Who?!” I screech, holding onto the seat for dear life. 

“Gideon!” 

“WHAT?! He came to—ack, look out!—my shop just before we left! He was—WHOA!!—looking for you and the kid—!” 

“And you didn’t feel the need to say anything?!” Djarin yanks the steering yolk to the left and my inner mechanic has an anxiety attack at the screech it makes. 

It occurs to me belatedly that he didn’t see Gideon entering or leaving: the ship he saw could have been another ship. “I was kind of occupied!” I snipe back, bracing myself against the console and turning to check on the kid. He’s fine, squealing joyously in his floating egg, as if he was on a ride.

Djarin doesn’t turn to me as my panic rises. “I thought he was dead!!” 

I grab Djarin by the edges of his cuirass and stare hard into his faceplate. “Does he look dead to you?!” 

“Easy—!” He ignores me in favor of flying the Crest into an evasive maneuver. 

_“Does he. Look dead. To YOU?!”_ I shake him a little.

“I can’t fly us out of here if you’re hanging on—HOLD ON!!” The Moff’s lasers skim past us—barely—as Djarin whips the craft into a corkscrew.

The proximity alarm screams as the child squeals with glee. Djarin pulls back on the throttle, slowing the craft—I launch forward into the instrument panel with an “oof”— and the TIE overshoots us. Djarin banks hard to the right— launching me into his lap—and we beat a hasty retreat. 

“Where is there a cave—?!” I demand. 

“What?!” I can't hear him over the alarm and the kid laughing. I adjust myself on his lap so he can hear me. 

“No caves—there’s an overhang right there though!” Djarin angles the nose of the Crest in that direction, eases up on the throttle and guides us in. 

It’s only when we set down that I realize my butt is touching Djarin’s groin—and he’s having a reaction to it. “Ugh! Keep it in your pants, man!” 

“Hey, it’s got a mind of its own—ow!” A piece of the control panel falls off and lands on his helmet. 

We leave the ship. The kid squirms in my arms and I put him down; he takes off to find a place to play. As soon as he’s out of sight (but not too far), I whirl on Djarin, grab his cuirass again and pull him down so I’m staring up into his helmet lens.

It doesn’t matter that I only come up to his chest. It doesn’t matter that he outweighs me by tens of kilos. 

It DOES matter that I’ve been threatened, shot at and almost vaporized because I tagged along with him. “If you don’t tell me what the kriff is going on, you’re on your own and I’m taking my tools!” 

Djarin definitely does not take me seriously. “Good luck getting off the planet with all of them with Gideon still out there.” He shrugs me off like I’m a bug and turns away. “Come on, we have people to meet.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...whoops.

We meet Cara Dune first. She’s tall and stocky, an odd combination of bodily traits, with black hair shorn close on one side. She’s got a rebel tattoo under her left eye. She grasps Djarin’s hand with familiarity and pulls him into a fierce hug. “Welcome back, Djarin.” 

I’m instantly jealous. 

I have no idea why, but I want to push Cara off of him. I’d lose that battle though: Cara outweighs me by at least thirty kilos.

Omera is next. She’s slender with dark brown hair and a maternal demeanor. She gives Djarin a quick hug. “It’s good to see you!” 

Two cute women have now given him a hug. I don’t know why I’m incensed but I am. 

A teen girl makes a beeline straight for the child. “I’ve missed you!!” She squeals as she picks him up and wraps him in a warm hug. The kid giggles and returns the hug with equal fervor.

The girl looks familiar and I seeth internally, then I shake my head a little. _He’s not yours, you don’t own him,_ my logical side points out. Sighing inside, I smile as I’m introduced; both women shake my hand, one at a time, and smile companionably. 

Cara leads us to a small but cozy hut. “We didn’t know you were coming by or we’d have made arrangements,” she says apologetically. “The extra empty huts fell apart during the storm last lunar cycle and between the attacks and the harvest, we haven’t been able to rebuild them.” 

“Attacks?” The word is out of both mine and Djarin’s mouths before we realize we’re saying it together. 

Cara shrugs. “The Klatooinians came back. They weren’t particularly pleased with the ATST being destroyed. None of the villagers have been hurt or killed but it’s starting to affect the local economy: anyone who can leave is doing so.” 

The Mandalorian is contemplative. Me, I’m pissed. This looks like a sleepy, peaceful village, who would want to attack it?

“On top of that, the ATST is still in the pond. I thought to drag it out but we don’t have anything with the horsepower and we definitely don’t have a mechanic.” Omera said quietly. She’s staring at me, assessing me. 

I look over at Djarin, who’s looking at me. “You can lift it using the Crest—“ 

“—and you can help them get it running,” he finishes. 

Omera smiles and Cara snorts. “Already finishing each other’s sentences?” The latter teases. 

Djarin freezes up and I stammer out “oh no, it’s not like that”, hopefully to keep either of them from thinking I am a threat. Cara and Omera exchange giggles and conspiratorial looks. 

I cut them off before anyone else can say anything else mortifying. “Okay—if you want me to get that thing running, I need a work space.”

“Right this way,” Cara says, motioning for me to follow. Omera puts a hand on Djarin’s shoulder and motions with her head; he follows her away from me. I’m calm on the outside but raging inside, even though I know I shouldn’t be. 

I’m led to a large outdoor clearing with part of it covered by a thatched roof. There’s a smaller shelter with enough room for a refresher, a desk and a chair. Outside, there’s a hardy looking workbench. The tools are dated and I’m glad I brought my own. The crate they are in is currently being dragged on a hover sled by an old mammal who looks like she would rather be doing anything else. 

“This is the best we’ve got at the moment.” Cara spreads her hands, motioning to the whole area. “I’m sorry it’s not more.” 

“No, no, it’s good, it’ll work,” I say. “As long as I can take apart what I need to or air out the rest.” 

Cara smiles. “There’s bored kids if you need their help.” Kids I can always use: they’re small enough to get into the tight places. 

“Okay so when do we want to get this party started?” I drop my duffel bag and crack my knuckles. Anything to get my mind off Djarin and the way both women have looked at him. 

“As soon as we can,” Cara smiles. 

Three hours later finds the ATST lifted from the pond and lain on the ground in the clearing. Immediately, I set anyone who isn’t standing guard to helping me disassemble it. Smaller children are given rags and assigned the task of drying the metal so it does not rust as the older children and the adult villagers swarm over the machine. In a matter of a few short hours, it’s taken apart and gutted just as the sun is setting. 

Fires spring up for light. I use my hands as a sound amplifier: “Do not stack anything, it’ll start rusting out!”

We’ve made good progress: the ATST is stripped to its chassis and the dashboard. “We’ve got to dry out this control panel here,” I murmur. Before I know it, several blowers are produced from the backs of boats that had been destroyed by the storm. “Wow, um, okay, they’ll go all night at medium speed and dry this out by morning.” 

At sundown, Omera claps her hands to call attention to herself. “That’s enough for today! Let’s eat!” Tables are produced, a bonfire is stoked and the local drink is poured. There’s food everywhere. I have a sip of spotchka for politeness: it burns like hellfire but it tastes so good. I end up having another three large cups. 

My head swims with pleasure. I stand up, intending to go to the refresher— immediately crash back down onto the log. Cara laughs and says something; I’m drunkenly offended. Djarin flinches as I turn shakily towards her. “Wash’ s’funny?!” I can’t understand what I’m saying and everything is fuzzy. 

The Mandalorian takes the half full cup from my hand. “Oh-kay, I think you’ve had enough.” 

I snatch it back and chug it before he can protest, belching after I drain the spotchka. “I’ll t-tell you when I’ve had enough!” 

Now everything after that is hazy so I’m going off of what I’ve been told here… Djarin sighs and loops my arm over his shoulder while Omera takes my cup from me. He guides me back to the Crest where the kid is sleeping, my brain getting fuzzier by the second. He attempts to dump me on the floor—or do I just fall? I can’t remember—

“Oh k-kriff no—you d-d-dragged me away from home and into the middle of nowhere, I am t-taking the bed!” I grab ahold of the bed frame and hang on for dear life while the room starts spinning.

Amused, Djarin just stands back with his arms folded over his massive chest and I pull myself to a standing position. 

The last thing I remember is running to the latrine in the crest and throwing up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m never drinking again—hey, spotchka!

I wake up the next morning with a splitting headache and a hiss. I’m lying on and under a soft surface—

—that I recognize to be Djarin’s bed. 

Several things happen at once: the kid squeals, making my head ring.

The hatch opens, flooding the bay with light.

The smell of caf and food assault my nostrils and my stomach starts roiling. 

I can still taste the spotchka on my tongue. “Kriff, I am never drinking again—urp!” With that belch, I feel my bile rise and I dash to the latrine, where I dry heave until someone knocks on the door. 

I turn to see Cara grinning at me: “Looks like you had fun last night!” 

“...bite me—urgh!” I turn and dry heave into the toilet again. 

“I’m sure Mando did plenty of that!” Cara cackles. She motions and I realize I am not wearing what I wore off of Nevarro: my clothing has been replaced by a worn but soft and comfortable long sleeve black shirt. It’s several sizes too big for me; the hem of it hangs to my mid thigh. 

It’s then I also notice I’m not wearing any underwear.

I shriek a little and get to my feet, then shove past a laughing Cara to burrow myself under the blanket while the child giggles more. _“Where are my clothes?!”_

Omera’s voice cuts through the gales of laughter coming from Cara. “You threw up on them—several times, in fact.” 

I peek out from under the blanket. “So he took the liberty of undressing me and putting me in his clothes?! _Where is he?!_ ” 

“He took your clothes to the laundry. It was too dark to clean them last night so he had to put them outside,” Omera explains. 

A metallic clank alerts me to Djarin’s presence: for all his armor, he looks incredibly chagrined. Without a word, he takes one look at me and heads immediately towards the exit—and is blocked by Cara. 

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone—but don’t think you’ve gotten off so easily!” She wags a finger at Djarin and exits the Crest with the child waddling behind her. Omera follows, flashing me a knowing grin. 

I seeth under my blanket. 

“Nothing happened,” Djarin says. He sounds…  
nervous and I feel it in the Force.

I snort derisively. “You’d be the first male to not try to take advantage of that situation…” 

“You were dead to the world: it’s much more fun when both parties are awake,” he says with what I assume is a smirk since he’s still wearing his helmet. 

I blush and squirm under the blankets, ideas of Djarin between my legs causing a rush of heat to my groin. “...thank you. For taking care of me—my clothes.” 

There’s a moment of silence and he replies: “they won’t be done until this afternoon.” 

More silence, except it’s considerably more awkward. “We didn’t actually... _do_ anything...did we?” I’m not a virgin, I know what sex is. I didn’t wake up with an ache between my legs like I have had sometimes after sex, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t had. 

“No, we didn’t—,” Djarin says. 

I sigh with relief. “Good—“

“—but you tried!” He does not elaborate further. 

Just...just kill me now. If the hangover doesn’t, the embarrassment will. 

I try to burrow under the blanket for a few more moments but the clamor outside keeps me awake. I suppose I should get up and get going but there’s a problem: while I have a shirt, I have no pants. 

Djarin seems to read my mind. “I’ll ask for Omera.” 

One visit and one pair of slightly-too-big pants later, I’m outside wearing Djarin’s shirt and Omera’s pants. I’m given a cup of whatever is the local hangover cure, which is absolutely disgusting but works, and I find out that my clothes are still being cleaned. 

We all made a lot of progress with the ATST the day before but now it’s time for me to break down the mechanics and engineering.

The Force helps guide me, telling me which piece goes where and how it works. Soon, I have a fairly functional chassis. With the help of the village’s more burly men, the chassis is erected. With Cara driving and Omera directing, I watch as the ATST is put through its paces. 

I make adjustments here and there, snorting as a few of the kids ask me to make it do things no mechanical vehicle could. The list is basically just martial arts maneuvers: “make it do a flying kick!” “Triple flip and punch the tree!” 

Towards sundown that day, my hangover is considerably abated and my mood is increasingly lighter. My clothes are brought to me by a snickering teen girl and I dress quickly in the Crest. 

The ATST is functional. It moves the way it’s supposed to, with relatively few bugs in the system. Cara seems insistent on heavy weaponry on it but Omera and I manage to convince her that the ATST isn’t built for heavy guns. Instead, we opt for short range guns: not a lot of accuracy but lots of damage. 

I turn to ask Djarin what he thinks but realize that I haven’t seen him since the Razor Crest this morning. Djarin has been missing all day. 

The Force tells me he’s fine, though. He shows up again just as the sun dips below the horizon. “Recon. There’s more of them than the last time but nothing we can’t handle.” 

That night, there’s more drinking—except for me.

I get a sense of family and community as I’m sitting around the fire, watching the village carouse and revel in their hope and success. 

I want… something. Someone, specifically, to enjoy this night with me. I’ve never seen his face, I don’t know his eye color or his face or his foot size or anything of that nature. He’s a locked tomb, one that promises untold treasures and knowledge. 

Omera sits down next to me with a cup of spotchka in her hand. “Something is troubling you?” 

“I don’t know, Omera,” I sigh as I sip my water. “Just… this whole thing… I’m not sure where I fit in with it.”

Omera takes my hand and gives it a gentle and reassuring squeeze. “We aren’t meant to know that at the moment. I don’t know that we’re ever meant to know.” 

I sip my water again. “What’s the point, then?” 

“Sometimes there isn’t one.” Omera looks away from me towards where Djarin is sitting and arm wrestling with Cara—a regular thing, I’ve learned. My heart caves a little. 

“Do you...are you in love?” I ask hesitantly, not sure I want to hear the answer. 

Omera nods, a small smile breaking out on her face. “Yes.” 

I sigh with resignation. “I’ll… I’ll stay out of your way, then. He’s a good man.” 

Omera whips her head back to me. “What?”

I stand up, the weight of everything on my shoulders. “He’s all yours, I won’t interfere.”

Omera stares at me for a split second then bursts out laughing. “Oh no, nonono—! It’s not like that with me and him—!” 

“Then...you and Cara?” Such relationships were rare in my village. 

She nods, still giggling. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months. Winta adores her.” 

“That’s… that’s wonderful!” In more ways than one, my brain realizes. 

A cheer rises up from the crowd around Djarin and Cara: Cara has yet again won an arm wrestling match against him.

I could get used to this.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, I wake up in the bed in the workshop. The last thing I remember from last night was putting my cheek on my fist and settling back into a tree to watch the partiers. I’m covered in a cloth and as I sit up, I see it’s Djarin’s cape. He is not in the workshop. 

A warm lump shifts and coos near me: the kid is curled up against my side and still asleep. He stretches in his sleep and rolls over; I tuck the cape around him and put the bulk of it between him and the floor. 

Djarin is sitting outside the workshop with a cup in his hand, which he offers me without a look towards me or a word in my direction. It’s caf. I accept it gratefully and take a sip: it’s shit caf but I grin and bear it as it winds its way down my throat. “Thanks.” 

“You feel anything off about today?” 

Clearly he does, even though I know he’s not Force sensitive. I stretch out my senses towards the village and feel… anxiety and fear. “Something’s up.” 

“Can you tell what?” 

“That’s not how the Force works,” I say with less exasperation and more worry. “I can tell you something is worrying everyone in the village and the village itself isn’t the cause of it. That’s it.” 

Djarin nods. “Then that means the Klatooinians will attack.” 

“Wait—what?” 

Djarin turns his helmeted head towards me. “Think about it: you know something bad is about to happen and you know it’s not coming from the village itself. Very little worries this village aside from bad weather and raiders.” He waves his hand towards the clear blue sky with a bright yellow sun less than halfway into its climb. It’s warm but clear and dry, no humidity so that means no storms later in the day. “Given the weather at this moment, it’s not likely to be the cause of their anxiety.” 

I look at him, blinking with shock. “Okay, never mind how smart—and probably right—you are, do you realize that’s the most words you’ve said to me in… ever?” 

He doesn’t say anything in response to that, just stands up and scans the horizon. “If you were a raider, when would you attack?” 

I don’t even need to think about it. “Sundown. Every day for the last few days, there’s been a party and heavy drinking. All the scouts would be reporting that everyone is blitzed out of their minds. Letting everyone sleep it off is a bad idea, so I’d attack with half to three quarters of the squad and set up a couple of snipers in trees.” It’s strange to me how easily that idea comes to me. We didn’t have more than the occasional large animal wander through town, much less raiders or pirates. 

Djarin nods his agreement and I preen internally. “That’s what I would do, too. The question is… can we get the drop on them first…?” 

———

The ATST is a work of art. My piece de resistance. My magnum opus. I stand marveling at my handiwork when Cara walks in. “Looks good!” 

The chassis stands at its full height, around five meters. It has light weaponry, sacrificing “boom” for “move” but in the right hands, it would be accurate, fast and deadly. 

“Why don’t you drive it?” Cara asks me. 

I hold up my hands and back away. “Nooo, no, I can’t. I can build it but driving it is another matter entirely.”

“Who’s going to drive it, then?” A pleading comes through the Force, jumping up and down like an excited school child wanting to be picked for a favorite sports position. It’s radiating from Cara, who is outwardly calm. 

I smile. “You probably should. Between you and Dj—Mando—you two have the most weapons experience but he’s needed elsewhere.” Kriff.

Cara keeps her glee well contained, electing instead to say “sweet!” then fix me with an odd look. “What was that you said?” 

I blow it off, quickly walking to where Djarin and the leaders were assembled.

He looks… badass. He’s standing loose but ready for anything. His rifle is hanging in his hands but ready to be used at a second’s notice. 

My insides clench as he looks over at me. I almost drop the torquer as he comes over to me. “I’ve got news.” 

“Not good, I take it.” 

“We’re moving the timetable up.” 

“Well shit,” I say. 

“Raiders got impatient and our scouts say they’re moving quickly now.” 

“Wha—“ My reply is cut off by a cry of alarm. 

Djarin straightens up and looks towards the direction of the sound. “Time to go to work.” 

I nod and look towards Cara. She’s already scrambling up the ladder to the ATST. Omera collects the toddling green child and deposits him into Winta’s arms; the girl and a couple of other teens start herding the smaller children into an underground shelter. 

“You...you should go with them, Moira.” It’s the first time Djarin has ever said my name. 

“Hell no. You may need me—“ I bristle. 

“Have you ever been in a fight?” He looms closer to me and I am...acutely aware of his presence. 

“No—“

“Ever swung at anyone?” He sneers. 

“Uh, no—“ 

Djarin brings his helmeted visage down so his eyes are boring into mine—or at least what I presume are his eyes. “Ever _killed_ someone?” 

I shake my head. 

“Then you stay here with the non-combatants.” Leaving no room for argument, Djarin straightens up, turns around and stalks away. 

Feeling useless, I follow the non-combatants into the shelter: very young children, elderly people and the infirm crowd around me. Winta is there with the child; she looks as unhappy to be in the shelter as I feel. 

He tumbles from Winta’s lap and toddles over to me. I lift him up and set him in my lap. “Hey kid, what are you in for?” 

He burbles and cuddles against me; I can feel the fear and confusion radiating from his body. I also pick up exasperation: this again?! Poor kid must have gone through this beforehand, but I don’t know anything about his past. “It’s gonna be okay, bud. They’re not gonna let anything happen to us.” 

The tension builds. It’s enhanced by the sounds of battle. 

The boy fidgets and I let him down. He toddles off to play with the younger children, who take an immediate liking to him. 

Something seems wrong about this entire situation. I can’t put my finger on it, but I suspect that there’s someone with more connections and gumption than Klatooinian raiders involved. 

I stand up and pace. Cara and Din are out there and could be getting hurt—or worse—and I’m in here doing nothing. Hell, even Omera, the least threatening of the villagers, is out there doing something and I’m not. 

I’ve never been in a fight. The closest I’ve been to a blaster is Ol’ Jugg’s down the road from my shop. It was an ancient thing and he used it to hunt for food. 

I look around at the shelter. It’s designed more for protection against severe storms than raiders. 

It’s then I realize that I still have my torquer and some of the elderly still have their canes. We may not be useful but we’re certainly not helpless. 

I hope Din and the rest are doing okay out there. 

———

I open my eyes some time later. I don’t remember closing them. 

What wakes me up is the cry of a terrified child and the rattling of the shelter doors near me. “Mando, is that you—?!” 

The rattling is fiercer. “Cara? Omera!” Feeling through the Force that it’s not them, I motion the shelter occupants behind me, to the side of the shelter and away from line of sight of the door. Winta, the apparent oldest and my only ally, pushes the foundling child behind her. 

The rattling stops—

—then the doors blow open. I hear an inhuman shriek over the howls of the kids behind me. 

The first raider gets a torquer to the face before he could pull the trigger on his weapon. He goes down hard, dropping it. Winta dives for it and grabs it before the next raider can snatch it up. She’s fierce but no match for any adult fighter, so I grab her by the arm and yank her away, blaster in her hand. 

I don’t have the time to switch out weapons: more raiders bottleneck in the doorway. The kids scream and shrink back as I swing the torquer to keep the raiders at bay. 

And the most welcome sound in the world: the sound of the ATST stomping over the plain. I hear Cara shout “Get them BACK!” I turn and grab the green child, then press the children against the far wall as Cara lights up the raiders, squeezing my eyes shut. 

Then the most welcome sound: none at all. I open my eyes and turn around. 

The raiders are all on the ground; some are moving and some are still as rocks. There’s blood and the smell of burnt flesh everywhere. 

After checking the area to make sure nobody was going to jump up and attack the kids, Winta and I lead them out. 

Cara jumps down from the ATST. “I came as soon as I saw them break away from the main group—“ She's covered in scratches and burns and has a small but bloody wound on her forehead. 

“Where’s everyone else?” 

“About two clicks that way.” She motions east. I look and see smoke and hear shouts. 

“Mando? Omera?” 

“Alive, both of them, last I knew.” She pants. “The battle’s over, we’ve won.” 

I almost sink to my knees in relief. He’s okay—he’s alive— “Any injured?” 

“Some...and a handful of deaths. There will be mourning tonight.” 

I hear my name shouted across the field. I turn to see Omera waving. Dressed in combat boots and a dark green jumpsuit, she looks like the commander of some elite unit instead of a housewife and I suspect there’s a story there that I don’t know. Djarin is right behind her. 

And then, my vision changes. _Suddenly I’m in a tree. There’s a weight in my hands; I look down and there’s a sniper rifle occupying them._

_But something’s wrong._

_My hands, typically the dark cream of a desert dweller, are now covered in bantha leather gloves._

_I see me. I’m standing in an open field, surrounded by children and elderly._

_I see my back, vulnerable and open._

_I see Djarin approaching._

_I pick up the sniper blaster and seat it against my shoulder._

_The quarry is there—all green skin and curious eyes._

_I squeeze the trigger—as the branch starts quaking._

“No—!” I twist away from Djarin, who is less than an arms length from me, and shove the child to safety while concentrating on the weakening branch, willing it to break or snap, anything to stop the threat. 

I hear the whine of a sniping blaster—and the crack of a tree limb crashing down. 

I feel an inferno in my right shoulder—

—and that’s the last thing I know.


	7. Chapter 7

I wake up in the workshop some point later. I'm covered by Djarin’s cape again. He’s leaning over me—helmet on, so I can’t see his face. 

“It’s shallow,” Djarin pronounces with no small amount of relief. “You’ll live. Sit up so I can clean and dress it.” 

I do so, trying to avoid stressing the wound—and failing miserably. “Ow! Owowouchow—!” It burns but no worse than touching a hot stove. The beam didn’t hit anything essential. 

Djarin pulls the collar of my shirt aside so he can get a better look at the burn. “Stop being dramatic! He just winged you,” He’s exasperated. “I’ve seen worse scratches in the kitchen.” 

I sigh theatrically. “But I’m dyyyyyying—I’ve been shot, everything is going dark—!” 

Djarin says nothing on that note, just continues to dress my wound— if it could even be called that. “Still can’t figure out why you blacked out.” 

I shrug, then hiss in pain as the resulting stretch over my burn sends fire over my shoulder. “Maybe energy usage?”

“We did find the shooter,” Djarin says in response. “He’s wounded but not seriously.” 

“Good—I want to see him.” 

Djarin pauses. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

I nod. “Someone hired him to take out the child—and not for dinner and a movie. I want to find out who but I can’t do that unless I talk to him.” I stand up, then promptly sit back down. “Later. I’m starving.” 

“That’s a good sign…” Djarin chuckles. 

———

One filling meal later, I’m outside the cell where the alleged assassin is being kept. I’m told he broke an arm during the fall but that’s the worst of his injuries. I stop outside the door, inwardly relishing in the innate fear the being is projecting. 

I open the door. A Twi’lek male with green skin sits on the bench, broken arm in a sling. He looks up at me with fear and horror in his eyes. “Look—I didn’t mean—“ 

“No, you meant to kill a _child_ ,” I respond angrily. “That’s not at all better.” 

“I didn’t even want to do that,” the Twi’lek responds. “He’s—he’s got my family—“ 

I narrow my eyes. “Who?” 

“Don’t know his name, just that he’s an Imp.” His heart rate jumps and the pure, unadulterated _terror_ radiating off of him convinced me he’s telling the truth.

“What’s he look like?” I stretch out my rudimentary senses in the Force, hoping the guy will at least call the description of the blackmailer in his head. 

Pay dirt: a picture of the guy materializes in the forefront of the Twi’lek’s mind as he describes his employer. “Dark skin, dark eyes, salt and pepper hair, distinguished lookin’...” 

It’s Gideon. 

The Twi’lek hangs his head and speaks softly: “He’ll...he said he’d kill my daughters and wife if I didn’t off the kid.” 

I feel a rise of anger and it’s not from the Twi’lek. It’s from Djarin, who’s just outside the cell. I guess he has amplifiers in his helmet or something, because nobody outside the cell could hear that unaided. I feel thoughts of the kid...and _me_.

Which is awkward. 

Because unlike the child, Djarin’s thoughts of me are definitely NOT paternal. I can’t tell exactly what they are, but I can feel that when he thinks of me, he doesn’t think of me like a child...

It’s even more awkward when I blush and the Twi’lek notices. “Your kid? With him?” 

“You could say that,” I snipe back, harder than I mean to. “One thing you have to know about Mandalorians: they are VERY protective parents…” 

The Twi’lek’s green skin pales. “Look—just don’t hurt me—I’m s-sorry—I didn’t want to—he’s got my family—“ 

He’s not lying. I can feel it through the Force. 

I also feel Djarin soften a little. Guy must be a sucker for a family sob story. I look the Twi’lek straight in the face. “Look, bud, that Imp guy is bad news—“ 

“Thank you, captain obvious—nngh!!” The Twi’lek’s sarcastic remark is cut off by Djarin grabbing his collar. He’s emanating thoughts of murder and mayhem and I hesitate to snap him out of it. 

“Where. Is. He.” 

“—dunno— _hurk!_ ” The guy’s response is stopped short by Djarin’s hands around his green throat—

_—and i see me on the ground, bleeding out from several wounds—_

_—i feel terror—grief— **anger—**_

_—my head feels like it’s about to explode—_

“—Djarin—“ I choke out—

And then I pass out.


End file.
